


Fade

by malchanceux



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Ghost!Will, M/M, Murder Family, Some OC's too, is it still 'murder family' if Hannibal and Abigail are uncle and niece?, sort of, though they are mostly background noise and used to urge the plot on, who are... also ghosts, will's dogs - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-03
Updated: 2013-09-28
Packaged: 2017-12-25 11:46:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/952707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/malchanceux/pseuds/malchanceux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The old manor house in Wolf Trap seemed--if a bit excessive to Abigail--perfect to Hannibal for fresh starts. The house itself is beautiful, and the groundskeepers have kept the gardens and acres of land surrounding the manor in pristine shape. The catch, though Hannibal never would have thought the place had come with one, was the ghosts that still called the manor their home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is something that I may or may not finish quickly, it all depends on if my muse cooperates. Just know that I'm very unreliable with updates. :(

It had been an unvoiced, though mutual decision to move out of the city. Hannibal’s sense of obligation had quickly turned into a deep feeling of _responsibility_ when it came to young Abigail Hobbs. It had led to Hannibal taking custody of her, and as the months went by and they became closer, a need to _protect_ had festered deep in the doctor’s chest. The media was a constant buzz in the background of their lives, Jack Crawford a near daily _harassment_. Abigail’s former neighbors and friends bared their true faces to the light, shedding their kindly masks in favor of scorn and condemnation—retracting their once so freely given kinship and acceptance so quickly one would worry of whiplash. Their lips whispered _cannibal_ , their eyes screamed _monster;_ their voices were drenched in contempt.

Though in truth Abigail had never been completely unaware of her father’s peculiar eating habits, her involvement could not be proved. Still, the self-righteous mob concentrated their frustrations and aggression on Abigail’s life, and, as the kindly uncle that took the orphaned girl in—and the one to kill the beast of a man that was Mr. Hobbs—Hannibal’s reputation took a staining too, if only in tabloids like tattlecrime. It was time to move on.

Wolf Trap was only a two hour ride from Baltimore, but its small population and rural visage gave the sense of isolation; made the two hours seem like two-hundred. The forest, fields, and wide spread properties gave one the sense of being in an _untamed_ land—almost unconquered by man. It was a beautiful countryside spread, and was occupied by many of the upper class; almost an even split between honest working men and woman and aristocrats who called Wolf Trap their home.

The manor they settled on is larger than the house back in Baltimore, and comes with many acres of land. Forest cages the old mansion in, makes the shaded ride up the drive almost eerie. The grounds, however, are beautifully kept. About a quarter mile radius has been cleared in a near perfect circle around the manor, instead replacing the old trees and wild shrubbery with neat gardens and cut grass. The realtor had suggested Hannibal keep the family who had previously cared for the land on his payroll. They were locals who played on traditional economy—were related and had worked on the grounds since they were children with _their_ parents. If the work he saw now was their doing, Hannibal would be glad to keep them around for some time to come.

The manor itself was unique in appearance and elegant in style. Hannibal had chosen it specifically for the fact it was the complete opposite of the sharp, modern stone and brick of his Baltimore residence. It was a shout of southern history, like an old plantation, a streak of polished wood exterior in a world of cement and steel. It was… _homey_. More so than the other house, and was exactly what Abigail—and perhaps he himself—needed to settle into the idea of being a closer family.

“Wow,” Abigail hummed excitedly from the passenger seat of the Bentley. “It’s _huge_.”

Hannibal smirked, gazing through the windshield as they drove around the back, where the garage was. They walked back around to the front and stood on the gravel driveway, taking in all three stories of their new home.

“I can’t believe I’m actually going to be living in this. It’s like something I’ve only seen in romance flicks—or horror films. Maybe I should be worried instead of excited,” Abigail looked up at Hannibal then, grin bright. “I can’t decide if it’s haunted or if a serial killer lives in the woods—what do you think?”

“I think,” Hannibal drew out, placing a guiding hand at his niece’s lower back as he started for the front door. “One serial killer living _in_ the house is enough.”

Abigail laughed then, only a little bitter as she skipped off and up the wrap around porch and into the manor.

 

 

 

A month of living in the manor and Abigail is settling in just fine. A routine had started just last week with schooling—home tutors, of course, came to the manor Monday through Friday. Different teachers for different subjects on different days; Hannibal made sure she received nothing but the best of education. A friend was made, which surprised the doctor if only how quickly the friendship grew. Sarah Becket: daughter of the head groundskeepers, George and Diana Becket. She was just a year older than Abigail, a graduate from the local high-school, and working alongside her parents to learn the trade so that one day she could take over for the aging couple. Sarah was kind and well mannered, and best of all, sheltered like most of Wolf Trap seemed to be. She did not know of the Minnesota Shrike.

Abigail spoke of Sarah highly, and tried her best to be sociable. Abigail wasn’t quite comfortable enough to leave the safety of the grounds yet, and so Sarah took her to explore the surrounding woods when she was not busy, and when she was, Abigail often chipped in on the chores if no school lessons were planned.

Sarah was delighted with the company, though George… less so. Hannibal recalled the first time Abigail had dawned a pair of work gloves and decided to help. The man had grown pale, his eyes hard—he did not seem angry, just upset. One look at Hannibal’s calm demeanor from his perch on the porch, however, had calmed the groundskeeper. Perhaps George had thought the doctor would be angry to see his _niece_ working in the gardens? It seemed plausible. The previous owners seemed particularly old fashioned in that way, from what he had learned from both the realtor and some of the locals he had spoken to while in town, and of course the Becket’s themselves.

Nevertheless, George was never anything but kind to Abigail, and so the incident quickly left Hannibal’s mind, and the girls grew closer.

 

 

 

 

“Sarah?” Abigail called, walking down the narrow gravel path that led to a large storage shed, tucked back in the woods as to not take from the beauty of the main manor. The shed mirrored the off white wood paneling of the house, ridiculously meticulous for a shed _hidden_ from the view of visitors—it even had a small garden of its own for crying out loud. Abigail made her skepticism and confusion clear the first time Sarah had brought her along when the older teen needed a pair of sheers for the hedges, but Sarah had laughed and defended the notion.

_“These lands are old, you know. It’s just how things were back then. People wanted to see the intricate gardens, not the workers who made them or the supplies they used. It’d take away from the magic of the manor.”_

Abigail conceded the point, the lands _were_ old. George had even shown her where the workers, and at some point slaves, had lived—off at the border of the grounds. It was nice like the manor, though obviously not as big or fancy. It had three rooms though, and Abigail was surprised to find they were furnished— _lived in_ even. Apparently, now that they didn’t have to worry about Sarah getting to school, the Becket’s preferred to live on the grounds and made use of the old workers quarters. Abigail felt oddly guilty for not knowing. Sarah laughed at that too.

“Sarah, you back here?” Abigail had already checked the Becket’s residence and found it empty; had thought maybe they were cleaning up some of the yard tools. It was Sunday though, supposedly their day off—Sarah hadn’t said anything about leaving.

Abigail opened the creaky shed door, finding it empty save the tools. Perhaps George and Diana had needed Sarah’s help for a supply run…?

Movement in her peripheral caught Abigail’s attention, “Sarah?” she called as she turned around. The movement turned out to be from a slowly wagging tail, fluffy and brown and belonging to a panting dog.

“Um, good boy?” Abigail said hesitantly, unsure if the animal was friendly. The dog, apparently, took that as an invitation. Oblivious or just uncaring of her obvious wariness, the dog trotted up and sat, almost expectantly, at her feet—tail wagging and lips pulled back in what seemed a smile. That’s when she noticed the old leather collar and metal tag.

“I didn’t know Sarah had a dog,” Abigail said with a frown. She reached for the tag, flipped it over and saw in worn letters the name _‘Winston’_. “Funny name for a dog… I don’t suppose _you_ know where Sarah is, do you?”

Winston licked her hand in reply, snuffled, and ran off back into the woods, returning with a sturdy stick.

“Um, I hope you don’t expect me to touch that. It’s covered in drool.”

Winston whined, tail drooping slightly as it slowed in its constant wag. He stared up at her with big brown eyes and did his best impression of a kicked puppy.

Abigail sighed.

“Okay, fine, but just _one time._ ”

Hours later, Sarah found them still playing fetch in the woods—Winston panting and Abigail sweating, smiling. Sarah seemed shocked to see the dog, which apparently was not hers. Abigail thought she saw a flicker of— _something—_ shining in Sarah’s green eyes when she spotted the mutt, but the older girl just hugged Abigail in greeting, pointing out how late it was and suggesting they make their way home. She didn’t so much as pet Winston.

“He just… walked on up to you?” Sarah asked as the threeof them made their way to the manor. The sun was beginning to set, darkness choking the woods. Sarah side-eyed Winston warily as he walked next to Abigail.

“Yeah, that’s why I thought he was yours. He’s just so friendly, and pretty well kept—if you ignore the dirt. Do you think I should post fliers or something for a missing dog?”

Sarah hummed noncommittally, still eyeing Winston, biting her lip nervously. “I don’t know, I guess. Look Abby, it’s been a long day—I’m just gonna head home, alright?”

“Oh,” Abigail said, confused and a little put off. Sarah usually joined them for dinner on Sundays. “Yeah that’s okay, I understand. I’ll see you tomorrow then, when my tutors leave?”

“Uh, yeah,” Sarah said, waving stiffly, still staring at Winston. “Tomorrow. Bye Abby.”

 _That was weird,_ Abigail thought. _Maybe she’s scared of dogs?_

 

 

 

 

It took everything Abigail had for Hannibal to let Winston in the house and not call the pound. After a good twenty minutes of debate, Hannibal relented. Sort of. Abigail had to give Winston a good wash down before he was allowed anywhere _near_ the house, and even then he was restricted from almost every room except for Abigail’s and the back sitting room. It was more than Abigail had thought she’d get with Winston, and so counted her blessings and scrubbed the dirt out of the dog’s fur and fed him some leftovers from a previous night before dinner was ready.

Clean and dry, Winston’s coat _shined_ in the light—even Hannibal gave an approving head nod as she led him through the manor and into the back sitting room while they ate. Winston curled up under the coffee table and didn’t make a peep until Abigail came back for him before bed, sharing her bed with the dog and sleeping soundly with her new companion.

 

 

 

 

The next morning Abigail woke alone. At first, she thought perhaps Winston had been a dream, but as the sleep left her eyes and her head became clearer she knew that not to be the case.

“Winston?” She called from her four-poster bed, expecting him to squirm out from under the frame—tail wagging and tongue lulling. There was only silence.

She made her way to a busy kitchen where Hannibal was making breakfast before he had to head to Baltimore for work.

“Good morning, Abigail,” the doctor greeted kindly. “How did you sleep?”

“Um, good,” she answered lamely. “You haven’t seen Winston, have you?”

“No, I had assumed he was with you, getting dog hair all over your bedding.”

“He was—I slept with my door closed, but he wasn’t there when I woke up.”

“Odd,” Hannibal replied with a slight frown. “Perhaps you did not shut your door as tightly as you thought.”

“Maybe, but I—” Abigail was cut off by an enthusiastic bark. She turned and looked out the kitchen window, surprised to see Winston prancing around the front yard.

“Mystery solved,” Hannibal commented, setting two plates of protein scramble on the small, set kitchen table before he too looked out the window. “Though I do wonder how he got outside. Perhaps George let him out to relieve himself early this morning?”

“I guess,” Abigail murmured, unsure. She sat down at the table to eat her breakfast, shrugging it all off as the sounds of a happy dog at play mixed with the normal morning noises.

 

 

 

Abigail _did_ end up making fliers for Winston, and for the first time, ventured with Sarah—who was steadily growing less apprehensive of the dog—into town to put them up. No one called, though Abigail persisted for a full week and a half. She’d be lying if she said she was disappointed. Abigail had grown attached to the scruffy fluff that was Winston the dog.

 

 

 

 

Hannibal Lecter stood stiff in the doorway of his study, sending the hardcover medical book laying open on his desk a suspicious look. He knew for a _fact_ that he had closed it before he’d left for work that morning. Abigail had left as well, early for a Friday, to help the Becket’s buy supplies in town. No one else had access to the manor—only George had a spare key, and Hannibal very much doubted the man, or his wife or daughter, would ever stoop to breaking and entering.

Hannibal went to the desk and closed the book, a thoughtful expression clouding his usually stoic face.

He chalked it up to negligence on his part, but kept a better eye on his surroundings just in case.

 

 

 

 

With him now actively looking out for things not being where they belonged, Hannibal was beginning to notice how much it was actually happening within the manor.

Books missing from shelves only to be found halfway across the house, CD’s being rummaged through and the _wrong one_ being left in the stereo, doors ajar when Hannibal was _certain_ he’d closed them behind himself, lights being left on in obscure and hardly used rooms—he was beginning to suspect that perhaps Sarah Becket _was_ snooping around. At first, this theory fit well, and he decided to deal with it at a later time, when he got better proof. If that _were_ the case, as he was certain it was now, he would have to handle the situation carefully. Not only did he wish to keep the Becket’s employed for their hard work and knowledge of the grounds, but Abigail so very much adored Sarah, and it was hard for her to make friends now with her father’s crimes hanging over her head.

Yes, it was a delicate situation indeed, though not an urgent one. There was nothing incriminating in the house for Sarah to stumble upon—Hannibal simply had not had the chance for his _unusual hobby_ since the move from Baltimore—and so the doctor went on, amused but no longer concerned.

 

 

 

 

More dogs started showing up after Winston. Abigail wasn’t sure where they were all coming from, but they had old collars and worn tags proclaiming their names—but no address or number of contact for the original owner. It was all very strange, especially since they all seemed to get along so well. Abigail read that dogs were usually territorial and prone to fighting when it came to intruders in their home, but if anything the dogs seemed more relaxed with the bigger their numbers got.

If Hannibal had been reluctant with Winston, he was a stone wall that _could not_ be moved with the others. No matter how man baths Abigail gave, only Winston was ever allowed in the house, and it wasn’t until George volunteered to make a kennel at the back of the manor that Hannibal relented on calling the pound.

There were six mutts in total, all mixes and quirky little things of all different shapes and sizes.

Abigail adored them, and if the small smiles Hannibal gave was any indication, the threats of the pound never had much truth in them.

The kennel turned into a group project for Sarah and Abigail, with George and Diana giving little instruction and all the supplies. Abigail didn’t mind, and decided that caring for the animals would be her job, even cleaning up the kennel when it got dirty.

The kennel itself ended up being a couple of big, fenced in dog houses, each wood paneled and off white just like the house. Abigail couldn’t stop the stupid grin she got when she was painting them, because _damn it_ if everything had a theme at the manor, even the _dog houses._

They didn’t shut the gate very often at night, the fence just being a precaution for occasions where a bunch of dogs running around willy-nilly would be inconvenient. The dogs seemed to like the kennel well enough, _most_ of them opting to actually sleeping in the dog houses rather than in the grass outside them. Abigail bought food bowls and kept an eye out for new dogs, didn’t bother making fliers anymore and hadn’t since the fourth one. It was disconcerting sometimes, when all the dogs—even Winston—would disappear for hours at the same time, but they always came back; always happy and healthy and the same drooling goofs from when they left.

Abigail was, though a little dubious of the weird habits of her animal friends, content.

 

 

 

 

Hannibal held his coffee mug snug in his hands as he ventured into the chilly morning air. It was a Sunday, the Becket’s day off and Abigail was, as usual, sleeping in. It was one of the rare moments he got to himself nowadays, and he made a point each week to enjoy his Sunday solitude.

Walking off of the porch, Hannibal had his sights set on one of the benches in the vast garden of the front lawn. Over the months he had been living at the old manor, Abigail and the Becket’s had slowly been adding onto the grounds already expansive gardens—trees that blossomed, bushes that bloomed, fountains for the birds as much as decoration. He swore he overheard Abigail discussing a _hedge_ _maze_ for the backyard the other day with George, and Hannibal wasn’t sure what he felt about that, especially when the older man didn’t protest the idea.

Sitting down on the morning chilled, intricate metal bench, Hannibal admired the view: the trees that made this corner of the gardens feel enclosed were green and healthy, the flowers that seemed to bloom despite the weather. He listened to the symphony of early bird song and the soft noises of crickets, that is, until a sound much like clippers caught his attention.

Hannibal looked over his shoulder and nearly startled at the hunched over figure behind him, gloved hands snipping at old flower blooms and pulling up wayward weeds. The doctor stared for a moment, bemused. The only workers currently employed to his knowledge were George, his wife, and their daughter—so then who was bent over the small rose garden, preening the thorned bushes when the sun was barely up?

Hannibal cleared his throat, and watched calmly as the man startled from his work.

“Oh—I—I didn’t see you there,” The man mumbled nervously, leaning back from the bush he was working on and—oddly—looking a bit to the left of Hannibal’s head. “I hope I didn’t disturb your morning coffee, sir.”

“Mm, I don’t believe I have seen you on the grounds before—might I ask who you are, and what you are doing out here so early in the morning?”

The nervous man rubbed at his stubbled jaw, unbothered by the dirt he smudge on his face with the action, or perhaps unaware he was doing it.

 “Me? Oh, I uh, I take care of the gardens—sometimes. It’s calming. I like the flowers, and I like the quiet of the early hours too,” the man fidgeted with the clippers in his hand, looking back down at the rose bush he had been pruning. He rubbed his free hand restlessly over his dirtied jean clad thigh. “Will, by the way. Um, my name’s Will.”

“Hannibal Lecter,” the doctor introduced, though it was probable that _Will_ already knew who he was. He wondered if the younger man was newly employed by the Becket’s, but from what he said it was far from his first day working at the manor. “How long have you worked here, Will?”

“Many years; since the previous owners of the manor,” Will replied almost morosely. A small smile soon took the place of his grim frown, however, as the man once again looked up at Hannibal (though at his chest this time, still avoiding eye contact). “You take much better care of the place. The others didn’t allow for much expansion—nature’s meant to grow, not be contained.”

Will returned his attention to the roses, clipping old and dying blooms off the bushes.

“I find it curious that I have never seen you before,” Hannibal said conversationally after a few beats of silence, picking up the slack for the man’s obvious social inaptitude. Will shrugged one shoulder distractingly, persisting in his work.

“I’m not very good with people. I’ve always been better with plants and animals.”

Hannibal hummed in acknowledgement of the non-answer, facing forward again while sipping his cooling coffee as he mulled over the puzzle that was Will. His psychiatric mind was already hypothesizing and discarding possible diagnoses: Aspergers, maybe. Not enough data to say, but surely something on the Autistic spectrum? That could explain why Hannibal had never seen Will before; why the Becket’s had never mentioned having help with the grounds keeping—people were not always so accepting of the mentally ill, or those whose minds simply functioned differently. Were the Becket’s ashamed of Will? Or perhaps they thought Hannibal would be disapproving—that theory made less sense, as the Becket’s knew the doctor’s profession.

Hannibal turned on the bench again, looking over his shoulder to inquire more from the gardener, but only found empty space where Will was once hunched over.

“Will?” Hannibal looked around, puzzled. He stood when he still couldn’t find the man in question, brow furrowed.

“Hannibal?” Abigail called from the direction of the manor. Bemused, the doctor gave one last cursory look over the enclosed section of the gardens—gazed over the trees and high bushes, down behind the bench where Will the gardener had been not minutes ago—before turning slowly and heading towards his niece.

 _Strange,_ he thought to himself, and made a mental note to ask George about the mysterious man at a later time.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay guys, I apparently lied when I said this would be a two-parter. xD My bad.
> 
> Um, this wasn't supposed to be the whole second chapter. I'm actually posting this because I want your opinions on what I wrote and how. I would *really* appreciate criticism.
> 
> Should I re-write this chapter? Is it at all believable? Am I using semicolons right? Is this how you write dialogue? Don't get me wrong, I love any comment you give me, but I'd love some constructive critiques. I feel so inadequate in my writing and I can't trust family/friends to tell me if I suck or not. 
> 
> If enough of you tell me kindly to go fuck myself I will re-do the chapter with your ideas/opinions in mind. I'm *really* unsure of this one. :/

Hannibal didn’t get a chance to question George Becket until that evening, on one of the rare occasions the man and his wife joined their daughter at his table. He served a slow cooked stew in contrast to the chilly weather, paired with a red wine. Dinner was coming to a close, everyone’s spirits lifted from a good meal and better company, when Hannibal broached the subject.

          “I spoke to a young man pruning the roses this morning,” Hannibal started, taking a sip from his wine glass. “I had not realized you’d hired an extra set of hands.”

          Mrs. and Mr. Becket paled at Hannibal’s words, Sarah nearly dropped her spoon. The doctor wasn’t sure what had warranted such a reaction. He had been careful to keep his tone light, as he was not necessarily angry or upset with them. The doctor was simply curious about the young gardener that had escaped him earlier.

          “W—we haven’t, Doctor Lecter. We haven’t hired anyone else,” George stammered. “He’s—uh, well.”

          “He just likes the gardens,” Diana finished quickly. “And working on the lands.”

          Abigail gave Hannibal a bemused look, before turning it to the Becket’s.

          “So… this guy just shows up and helps out with the gardening—no pay or anything? Why doesn’t he just get a job here, it’s not like you guys couldn’t use the help.”

          Diana and George shared an apprehensive look, as though they were trying to decide how best to explain the situation.

          “Will is, well. He’s different,” Said Diana.

          “If you are referring to his Autistic tendencies,” Hannibal spoke up then. “They did not seem to disrupt his ability to function—or, in theory, hold a job. In fact, he appeared quite content with the work.”

          “That’s not exactly what my wife meant by different, Doctor Lecter,” George replied, obviously uncomfortable with the conversation. “Maybe this discussion is best saved for another time.”

          “I am afraid I do not agree. I don’t particularly like the idea of a stranger working on my lands, though I am sure you had a reasonable purpose in not making Will’s presence clear. I do, however, wish to know who he is and why he is here.”

          Diana placed her silverware down, expression pensive. “I fear you won’t like our answer, Doctor Lecter.”

          Hannibal took a sip of his wine, a polite gesture to give himself a moment to mull the older woman’s words over. He could not assure her that no matter what they said their job would be secured, because he detested those who broke promises—hypocrisy more so. He could not swear that their answers would not endanger their employment. The Becket’s choked reaction to his meeting Will was suspicious; their unwillingness to divulge who the mysterious man was ominous.

          “I appreciate honesty, Mrs. Becket. Perhaps if you just start from there.”

          “And if you don’t believe us?” Sarah asked, speaking up for the first time. She gazed sullenly into the remainder of her stew, looking almost resigned.

          “I like to think of myself as an open-minded person.”

          George picked up his wine glass then, chugged the rest of the liquor in one go. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table as though he was bracing himself.

          “How much have you heard about the manor?”

          “It has had a short line of owners; the realtor called its history… _eccentric.”_

          “And the murders?”

          Abigail looked surprised at that, looking from George to Hannibal. “Murders?”

          Hannibal raised an almost disinterested eyebrow. “A family was killed here. A mother, father, and son I believe. It was a long time ago, nineteen years, correct?” George nodded, grim, perhaps, now knowing Hannibal had bought the manor with such knowledge beforehand. “Though the blood has been washed away and the bodies long since removed, the tragedy has soaked into the very foundations of the manor as bad memories are wont to do. It made it a realtors living Hell to sell despite the quality of land: they lowered the price considerably and I took advantage. I am not a very superstitious man.”

          “Perhaps you’re not Doctor, but not believing in something doesn’t make it any less real.”

          “And what exactly might you be referring to, Mr. Becket?”

          George sat back, mimicking his wife’s apprehensive posture, but continued on.

          “I was just a boy when the Graham’s bought the manor out from under the original owners. They were new money, but young—the political sort. The way they talked sometimes you’d think the husband was going for presidency or something. One day they decided to have a kid; being a tight nit family was supposed to help their _image_. But things didn’t quite work out the way they’d hope—the baby was born ill. Wouldn’t cry, wouldn’t eat; had to spend its first few weeks in the hospital, and even when he came home the doctors said he’d never be quite right. Janet Graham acted like God had done her a personal wrong—James hired nannies. They didn’t do the raising.”

          “I don’t recall the boy ever leaving the manor’s grounds until he was about ten, and even then it was only because they couldn’t get away with leaving the kid behind without the newspapers and paparazzi catching on to just how shitty of parents they were.”

          “He was a sweet boy though,” Diana cut in softly. “He was a smart, sweet boy. I married George not too long after he was born—I got to watch him grow up into a man. He didn’t have any friends, so we let him help us with the grounds work. He enjoyed it well enough—I think he was just lonely.”

          “He had a thing for collecting strays,” George flicked his eyes over to Abigail now. “Janet hated them, but James didn’t care as long as the dogs stayed _outside_ and the boy didn’t do anything to screw with their public image.”

          “I used to buy collars and tags for every dog that he brought home, to make them feel more like his.” Diana murmured.

          “I think,” Hannibal said, cutting them off before they could continue. “I have a good idea where this story is going.”

          “He died, Doctor Lecter—the boy,” George’s voice rose and shook, undeterred from finishing. “Will Graham died, but he didn’t stay _buried._ Not all of him at least.”

          There was a deafening silence for a beat, two, before Abigail shattered it with an awkward, forced laugh.

          “Right,” she scoffed, trying for a light tone but only coming off as uncomfortable. “So Will the gardener is actually Will the ghost. Okay, haha, told you the place was haunted Hannibal. Nice try guys.”

          “We’re not joking, Abigail,” Sarah said, fisting her hands in her lap—anxious. “Will has been here since before I was born. And it’s not just him—it’s those dogs too. All of them. They’re not _right._ ”

          “I think we are finished for this evening,” Hannibal stood then, slow and elegant and no less in control. His face was the epitome of neutrality and his posture no less soft and inviting as it had been at the beginning of dinner. Abigail sat, startled and bemused as the doctor led the Becket’s to the door as he did every time they came over for a meal. Stunted farewells were given from Geroge and Diana; Sarah remained silent—Hannibal’s hospitality lacked nothing as he invited them over for the same arraignment next Sunday.  

          When the Becket’s were gone and Hannibal returned to the dining room to a bemused and disbelieving Abigail she said: “Do you think it’s something in the water or should we be worried about a camera guy popping out from under the table saying we’ve been _‘punk’d’?” ~~~~_

 

 

 

          The next day found Hannibal Lecter in his study, staring out its broad window with a difficult decision weighing on his mind.

Despite Abigail’s crude efforts to make light the previous nights discussion, what the Becket’s had “confessed” had changed everything. The doctor found himself at a loss. He could blame their belief of this _ghost entity_ on shared delusions if Hannibal had not met Will in person and knew, for a fact, he was real. And unless Will shared their macabre-fantasy, a very unhealthy relationship stood at the edge of harmful between the Becket’s and the quiet gardener. If they believed in such morbid stories, had given Will such a gruesome past, what would stop their minds from jumping to violent solutions?

          Hannibal was not used to situations he could not easily dissect and understand.

          Dinner’s conversation had not answered the doctor’s original inquiries. Who was Will? Where was he from? Why did he work on the grounds if not paid to do so? These were all very important questions. If Will did, in fact, share in the Becket’s delusions, it made him potentially dangerous as well, if not _more so_ than the Becket’s themselves. As a psychiatrist the predicament was _fascinating_ and had potential to be entertaining, but he had Abigail to think of now; her wellbeing to prioritize. He couldn’t afford to have mentally unstable and potentially violent groundskeepers on his payroll.

          And therein lie the difficult decision. The Becket’s had proven to be competent gardeners and decent people. They were polite, honest, and hard working. Abigail had slowly been ascending the cold depths of depression through the friendship bond formed with Sarah Becket and her parents. She had been more outgoing and her self-esteem had skyrocketed. Hannibal was Abigail’s uncle and her unofficial psychiatrist, but there was only so much even he could do for her. She needed relationships like hers and the Becket’s to get past the trauma of her father trying to kill her, and now Hannibal was presented with the prospect of having to _fire_ them.

          The doctor sighed quietly, the only outward sign of his frustrations he was willing to show even in the privacy of the study. He moved to sit at his desk when movement from within the yard caught his attention. A loose plaid adorned body moved swiftly through the cover of blooming Violet Weeping and White Redbud trees, heading for the thicket of the woods surrounding the manor.

          Setting his jaw, Hannibal turned swiftly to the door, deciding to get to the truth of the Becket’s ghost story and the mystery that was _Will_ once and for all.

 

 

 

 

          By the time Hannibal had made it down stairs and into the vast gardens where he last saw Will, the elusive man had made it into the woods. The doctor was less than enthused at the prospect of traveling into the rough of the more rural part of the grounds, but the need to find _answers_ had him trudging through a broken trail of dead leaves and dirt in expensive leather shoes nevertheless. Quiet bird song followed him in, accompanied only by the sound of his own foot falls. The woods were disconcertingly tame.

          He walked for no more than five minutes before he came upon a small break in the dense foliage. Low hanging branches and sprawling bushes were replaced by a small opening of short green grass and patches of flowering weeds. More towards the middle stood Will with a dirty purple and orange tennis ball in hand. Hannibal recognized it as one of the balls Abigail had bought for the dogs.

          Hannibal took a step forward, mouth opening to call out to the slighter man when a loud whistle whipped through the air, as though the gardener were calling to a pet. The doctor stopped, held still as Will raised the hand with the ball. He threw it high and off to the side to empty air, the ball spinning through a near perfect arch to greet nothing when—

          When a dog was suddenly _there_ , in the air as if mid jump, as if it had been there all along and had given the tennis ball a running chase. Its gaping maw came first, the rest of its body becoming corporeal in a quickly congealing mist. By the time it landed, ball in mouth, its entire body was _solid_ and recognizable as Winston. The dog trotted happily back to Will, dropping the toy at his feet.

          Hannibal took a faulty step back, a twig snapping beneath his foot. Winston looked at him, ears perked in interest. Will turned to look as well, a small smile slipping from his face and turning into a thoughtful frown. The gardener gazed at Hannibal for a few silent moments before turning his attentions back to the dog.

          “Go home Winston.” Will murmured, petting the dog gently. He looked back at Hannibal—still frozen in place—before turning away as if to walk further into the woods. The slighter man didn’t take a full step before his body started to dissolve, turning to mist caught in a breeze in the exact reverse of Winston’s appearance.

          Said dog yipped happily before trotting toward the doctor. There was a moment of indecision within Hannibal where fight or flight fought to overtake his usual calm demeanor, but the doctor swiftly stomped down such kneejerk reactions. Instead, he stood stalk still as the panting mutt drew only closer before walking past him entirely, back towards the manor. A gush of wind huffed past his lips, a breath Hannibal had not realized he’d been holding.

          He stood there in the woods surrounded by the sounds of wind rustled leaves and singing birds for what felt like hours, shock making his legs heavy and unwilling to move. His hands shook from where they were at his sides, his body numb as his mind raced through possibilities. The thought of the paranormal held his heart in a frozen, icy grip. That the Becket’s had been honest and _right_ had never crossed Hannibal’s mind, why would it? For the second time in less than twenty-four hours, the doctor found himself at a complete and total loss of what to do or believe.

          Slowly, stiffly, Hannibal made his way back to the manor, thoughts alight and sparking with no resolution. The sun was going down now, dinner needed to be made. The doctor kept these mundane thoughts in a constant stream, his only link to the world outside his hectic mind. He needed to get to the manor, he needed to cook dinner. The rest could be taken care of later.


End file.
